


The Night Outside (is nothing to the one inside)

by booksblanketsandtea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksblanketsandtea/pseuds/booksblanketsandtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes across Sherlock sleeping on the couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Outside (is nothing to the one inside)

 

  
_Written for_ [ __ ](http://lmusic.livejournal.com/profile) [ _**lmusic** _ ](http://lmusic.livejournal.com/) _for their_ [ _Make Me A Monday_ ](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/2882463.html) _prompt. Enjoy!!_

 

 

**~**

 

  
John climbs the stairs up to the flat quietly, doing his best not to wake Mrs Hudson below. It’s nearing on the earlier hours of the morning, and everything is muffled by the night outside. The only reason John himself is awake is because – after a four day case that had taken them across the city and back – he felt it was his duty to make sure that Sherlock ate something. Of course, they didn’t have any food in the flat, so it was John’s mission to go out and grab some take away from the restaurant at the end of the street.

John stifles a yawn and opens the door to the kitchen, placing the bags of food on the table. He then moves into the lounge to call for his flatmate, but stops in the doorway, holding his breath.

 

Sherlock Holmes is fast asleep on the couch; one arm tucked under his head and the rest of his body curled up as tightly as his ridiculously long limbs will allow. His cheek is smushed to one side as he presses against his arm (no doubt cutting off the circulation) and his cupid’s bow of a mouth is unravelled, lips slightly parted. He frowns slightly in his sleep, just enough that John knows that even now – even now, that magnificent brain is still whirring away. Every now and then, Sherlock makes a soft snuffling noise that has John hiding an affectionate grin behind his palm.

John spends a few more moments letting his eyes rove over his flatmate – this incredible man who has taken his life and spun adventure and joy back into it. The streetlamp outside is the only source of light in the living room, and the beams sidle softly through the window to highlight the sharp angles of Sherlock’s body in a dusky gold.

Eventually, John notices that it isn’t very warm in the room and that Sherlock is trembling just a bit. He treads softly into the room, desperate not to break the moment. John grabs the blanket from the back of the armchair as he goes, unfurling it to drape across his flatmate, who moves sleepily into the new warmth, leaving a space beside him on the couch. John hesitates, but then Sherlock mutters into his arm and John has to sit because – _no. He can’t of._

_But he **did**._

 

 

 

John sits in the space near Sherlock’s stomach and waits to see if his name will be said again.

 

One of many curls has fallen across Sherlock’s forehead, his breath pushing and pulling at the raven lock in turns. John’s fingers itch to bury themselves deep in that hair, but he contents himself with just pushing it back gently into place with the others. Addiction runs in the Watson blood, and John knows almost immediately that this was a mistake because, _god_ , how does he get his hair so _soft?_

John doesn’t get an answer to his thoughts because a hand has wrapped itself around his wrist. His eyes flick up to meet Sherlock’s but they are unfocused and fuzzy as John knows they never would be if his friend were awake. He speaks gently to him anyway.

“Sherlock? You okay?”

 

Sherlock’s hand moves, heavy with sleep and burning John where it touches him as it comes to rest on his neck. John barely has time to realise what is going to happen before he is pulled down, Sherlock raising his face to meet him.

 

Sherlock’s mouth is soft and warm and John can’t help but close his eyes and sigh against them as they move together. A tongue flicks at the crease of his lips but it slips away before he can reciprocate and so – ignoring every warning bell that is screaming at him not to do this, not to give in – John opens his mouth and lets himself taste Sherlock back. The sleeping man offers him a whimper as their tongues curl together slowly and it is this that finally wakes John from his state of bliss. Because he is awake – and Sherlock? _Sherlock isn’t._

He pulls away sharply, standing and stumbling backwards as quietly as he can, because now he’s desperate for Sherlock; desperate for him to stay sleeping, to wake up, _and to keep_ \- - -

 

John licks his lips slowly, tasting his flatmate and pushing down the desire that flares within him, focussing instead on the guilt that he should be feeling. It’s there, muted but there, and no doubt when he goes upstairs to his own bed (because _dammit_ Sherlock, _that’s_ where people slept! In _beds_ , not on couches in the living room where anyone could just come along and---) he’ll feel it pulse through him, much like this infernal, heated _wanting_ is right now. Addiction runs in the Watson blood and John is no exception. He’ll have to deal with this, soon. But until then, he savours the taste of Sherlock on his tongue and the tingle on his lips, letting the moment drag out just a little longer before he heads upstairs.

 

On the couch, Sherlock is fast asleep. He moves slightly under his blanket and turns his face to a more comfortable position against his arm. Every now and then he makes a soft snuffling noise.

 

And all the while, he smiles.  



End file.
